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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23782744">Under Her Black Wings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletHellfire/pseuds/VioletHellfire'>VioletHellfire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Complex Relationship, Drinking, Experimentation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:20:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23782744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletHellfire/pseuds/VioletHellfire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is there anything science should not try to explain? Science is knowledge and knowledge is power - power to do good or evil. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”</p><p>--Paul Davies</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Moira O'Deorain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Under Her Black Wings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Jamison, you are a <em> mess </em>."</p><p> </p><p>He leaned over from where he sat, a high-pitched giggle erupting from his crooked mouth.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Iszzat an official diagnosis, Dr. O'Deorain?"</p><p>
  
</p><p>Another round of giggles, and he flopped back onto the sofa fully, landing without any motion or grace. In just a few quick, thirsty gulps, he finished what was left of the cup in his good hand, a satisfied huff trailing behind. Eyeing him carefully, she sipped from her own glass steadily.</p><p>
  
</p><p>The whole base was celebrating. It was Lena's birthday, and like any true Brit, she wanted to celebrate with lots of friends, lots of cake and lots of alcohol, which was fine by Winston; they weren't supposed to be leaving unless necessary anyway, since the current tensions between Overwatch and the rest of the world were still being smoothed out in places, their current locale included. The young girl didn't mind staying in, though… and neither did any of their other teammates. All of them were going to make the most of it, even if that meant getting everyone there fat and floored as quickly as possible.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Knew it was gonna be one'a them days when I got a pint handed ta me at brekkie." he stated, smile growing wider, carelessly setting his cup down on the coffee table in front of him.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He turned to look at her. He looked like he wanted to say something, but opted for palming his hair a few times instead. His eyes went back out to the party, watching as people repeatedly missed hitting the white cue ball on the pool table just feet from where they sat.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She gingerly whisked the drink in her hand, smirk forming just on the tip of her lips.</p><p>
  
</p><p>In the back of the room, someone was setting up for karaoke. One of Lucio's boomboxes was set up on a crate, and a long, thick wire trailed from it into an old microphone, held together almost solely by electrical tape.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Bet you could probably belt out somethin' nice..." he said, half definitive, half trailing. He nodded his head in the direction of the makeshift stage being set up. "...maybe somethin' slow, or… or… like one a'them numbers with the crazy horns and all. What's that called, again?" he asked, not even sure if he was saying it right. </p><p>
  
</p><p>"Jazz." she said, in a flat tone.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Yeah, that’s it! Jazz!" he said, lighting up.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She gently snorted. She had noticed that he got like this when he got a bit tipsy: talkative-- almost more so than when he was straight-- the need to fill the air, always friendly, but a bit overbearing for her tastes. It was easy enough to go along with, though, especially if there was something to focus on other than themselves. And he was surprisingly knowledgeable about the strangest things, so it was always a guess as to where his mind was going.  </p><p>
  
</p><p>She could see why some people had such divisive opinions about him, though. It wasn't hard. Even she hadn’t given him a second thought when they were first introduced. He seemed to simply <em>exude </em>obnoxiousness. But as time went on, she eventually saw a certain… <em>potential</em> in him, though, which is how she found herself where she was now: trying to build and foster some level of friendship.</p><p>
  
</p><p>The idea was admittedly a bit absurd at first. She wasn't the type to bother with social bonding. There was always something more important just ahead. But it didn't take much, honestly. Aside from Mako (who she was convinced only stuck around because of the potential payoff and made the best of it) nobody really went out of their way in either direction for him. Sure, they'd talk to him if he came over, or maybe say a brief hello here and there. Of course they included him on group assignments-- this <em>was</em> a group job, after all-- but nobody sought out his company on purpose. He was a coworker to them, whether for better or worse, and that was it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>So it was natural that he almost seemed suspicious that first day… the day she decided to test the waters. She knew he was alone in the common room late one night, watching TV. It was well past the hour when everyone else usually turned in, so she felt the timing was right; his guard was probably already down, and nobody else would be there to distract them.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It was quiet, the thrum of whatever was playing barely rose above a whisper. The carpet muffled the faint sound of her shoes, so when she finally made it to the couch and plopped herself down, his head almost snapped up in surprise. She sighed, eyes trailing the set, as she pulled two tall shot glasses from her pocket.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"This show is shite," she said, lips curled. She quickly poured two fingers of mid-range whiskey into each glass, and handed him one. </p><p>
  
</p><p>His eyebrows shot up, before drifting back down as he looked between her, the glasses, and the rest of the bottle. He shifted in his spot, body going slightly on the defensive as he tucked his legs back in and straightened his posture.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Slainte," she said, clinking the glasses before sipping thoughtfully from her own, arms folded, yet relaxed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Admittedly, this was a bit forward, even for her, but it did just what she wanted it to do. He looked at her, mouth slightly ajar, eyes furrowed gently. His face almost seemed to get stuck on whatever unsaid puzzle he was supposed to be figuring out with all this, but he never actually said anything. Instead, he slowly leaned forward, elbows on his knees, expression softening incrementally by the second.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"...Yeah, mate," he said, cautiously raising his own glass to his lips, "...But it was either this, or listen to th' pig man's snoring again."</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Ah..." she said, turning toward him. "He still has that cold, I see. Bastard wouldn't let me treat him a few days back.” A dry smile punctuated her words.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He snorted, face falling neutral. "Yeah, man's got his pride. Didn't have much 'n the way of doctors back home. It's jus' kinda how we dealt with things… ya slept it off."</p><p>
  
</p><p>Her smile reached her eyes. "Well, then. More for us," she said, taking another gentle pull from her glass.</p><p>
  
</p><p>And with that, she was in. Just that brief amount of interaction, that insignificant amount of humanity shown to him. Honestly, she wasn't expecting it to be quite so straightforward, but in a way, she was thankful it had been.</p><p> </p><p>Almost immediately after, he had started doing small, almost unnoticeable things for her, like slowing his pace in the corridors so she could get around him more easily. Admittedly, she was glad she didn't have to navigate around his uneven gait anymore, especially down the more narrow parts of the building, but it became almost comical sometimes when he would simply stop to let her pass.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It quickly moved on from there, though. He'd sometimes 'find' books she had intentionally left in the library and return them to her, whatever the hour. She could count on both hands or more how many times she heard the ginger rapping of metal on metal late at night, long after the lights had gone out, or to wake up and find him within a foot of her door, almost running right into her. He reasoned that he thought the books were important-- always did, regardless of what was on the cover. He could read, but a lot of what she had went right over his head, or wasn’t anything he had an interest in, so he had no real way of knowing one way or another.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Then he started thanking her. At first, it was just for the bigger things, like a perfectly timed heal during training, or with help taking out a turret that would have otherwise done him in: things she appreciated, and almost expected from her team. But soon, it was for… well, anything. Thanks for the heads-up, thanks for sticking near us, thanks for telling us about that, thanks for letting me borrow your pen. It was bordering on embarrassing at moments, but strangely, she almost found it… cute. Like she was shepherding a lost puppy.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He was happy they were friends now, she could tell. He seemed so much more upbeat about the little things, and didn't fight nearly as hard when he was asked to do something he didn't want to do. And she would be lying if she said she didn't overhear him on occasion when he'd bend his bodyguards’ ear over something trivial they did that day. She sometimes wondered if he never had friends to begin with, if any of this was impressing him the way that it did.</p><p>
  
</p><p>The microphone that sat on the boombox squealed when it was finally picked up, a loud whine catching everyone off guard, and a collective cringe spreading across the room.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Drongo..." he stated, fixed in place. His arms were splayed out over the back of the sofa now, skin blotched pink in places, painting him in a lush’s halo. His face looked slightly drawn, bordering on tired.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He was definitely starting to feel things, she knew. The thought almost warmed her heart. Almost.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She moved from her spot on the arm of the sofa to right next to him, poised just a hand’s width away from his body. She shifted from side to side as she settled into the lumpy batting of the cushion, long legs crossing as she did. He grew slightly tense as her shirt gathered and brushed his torso, but he still didn't move otherwise. This too, was a measured effort.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"I wonder which one you'll be doing..." she said airily, as the first few bars of whatever song came on. She raised her glass with a smirk, eyes only passively watching what was in front of them.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Me?" he said, with a stunted giggle, "Oi, that ain't gonna happen, love."</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p>
  
</p><p>"For starters..." he started, sitting up. The sentence faltered in his throat as he met her eyes, his own bouncing from one to the other, as if he wanted to look at both but couldn't possibly pick. "For starters, I can't. Never could. Tried ta, I really did, but it jus' comes out all squawks and squeaks."</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Says who?" she asked facetiously, as if this was news to her.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Look 'ere, the great Jamison Fawkes is a man'a many talents, darl, but this ain't one'a them, " he said, slightly stern. He was smiling all the same. "Now, mines, though? An' explosives? <em>Those</em> I can make sing. Gimmie a round'a them, and I'll give you a whole bloody choir, with angels n'everything!"</p><p>
  
</p><p>She snorted again, and pulled her attention back to whomever <em>was</em> singing, noting with a somewhat distantly-amused understanding that most people on base couldn't, but that wasn't stopping the rest of them.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Jamison was, all at once, many things, she thought. On the battlefield, he was fearless to the point of recklessness, launching himself head first into all types of danger, throwing bombs around as if he was immune to them, and laughing as the pieces fell to the ground. He carried that attitude outside of combat too, but in a different way, and not in every circumstance. It was all bravado, though. Well, most of it. He was certainly confident in his abilities, but he worked well enough with others that it gave the game away all too easily.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Physically, he was exceptional, too. He was missing half of his body, but still able to accomplish what any normal person could-- maybe even moreso, depending on the job. She still remembered, with nearly reverent awe, looking over Angela's notes after his initial physical, almost not understanding any of it. All the numbers were way off from where they should have been, and the amount of foreign objects embedded in places where they shouldn't have been should have immobilized or killed him by this point. But… they hadn’t, and he seemed to thrive despite it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It was… fascinating, to say the least, how someone who grew up in and lived in such irradiated squalor could form a person such as himself. There was something there that stirred the empirical heart that beat deep within her chest in a way she couldn't describe. Part of her wanted to dissect him, take him apart and build him up again, just to see what would happen. Another part of her wanted to preserve him in a jar, and just study him as he was for years, maybe even unlocking his secret on life. And yet, another… another wanted to bring him to his mortal knees and watch his squirm under her thumb.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She'd have to settle for something much less than all of that, though.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He leaned over to the coffee table, and grabbed a stray slice of leftover cake, stuffing it in his face with just two bites, and leaving a large green streak of frosting just next to his mouth. "Fuck, that's good..." he muttered, spitting a few crumbs as he spoke.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Fascinating indeed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She pulled him back some, taking his face in one pointed hand. She wiped the greasy sugar off with the other, making slow, deliberate strokes with her finger, much like a mother would do for her child.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Like I said, Mr. Fawkes. A mess<em>.</em>" she said, half scolding, half joking.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He swallowed. His eyes looked like they had questions behind them, questions that he knew she was never going to answer. He opened his mouth as if to say something again, but stopped short. A small "Thanks, mate" was all he managed to get out.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She was aware. She was aware that he had looked past all this as friendship at times, and maybe thought of it as something else blossoming, something that might even be considered romantic. He was usually more subtle, as subtle as he could be most days, only doing minor inoffensive things like letting his stare linger, or flashing her quick smiles every so often when she'd catch him looking over in her direction. There were times though, like now, when alcohol or something else was involved and it became a bit more obvious. He'd giggle more, he'd smile more, he'd find any reason to stay wherever she was regardless of what was going on, and he'd get that same look on his face whenever their bodies touched in any way: a look that said that he had to fight himself not to try and take it further, despite wanting desperately to do so. To her credit, she didn't do much to spur it on, and it initially wasn't intentional. But much like how it all started, she wondered if he knew what a proper courtship looked like to begin with.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Probably not, if all it took was spending time with him, getting him drunk on occasion, and laughing at things he'd say. It wasn't hard, not in the least, and it wasn’t like she wasn't using that knowledge to her advantage.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She had to admit, though, that he was perfect. Perfect for her, anyway. Pliant, trusting, and either naive enough or blissfully unaware of anything that was going on.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She looked him in the eyes again. His were a bit dilated now (though she couldn't tell what, exactly, that was from) and sat weighted in his skull. His skin started to bead lightly at the top of his hairline, the reddish hue from earlier evening out, but still coloring him from tip to tail in shades of heat. He seemed relaxed, maybe more than, and that underlying electric energy he normally carried with him seemed sated for the moment. He shot her a look before backpedaling on it completely.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She raised her glass to her lips. He certainly was perfect, alright. In addition to being such a physical paradox, he also seemed to never taste when something was off in his food or drinks. And he never questioned it, any of it, the next day either. True, she usually paired it with something that would probably knock him off kilter anyway-- booze always being the easy one... but not the only one.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He shot her a wide, lopsided grin before sagging against the sofa again.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Christ..." he muttered, palming his face before hooking his elbows back again, "...th' day really caught up ta me, didn't it?"</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Considering you've been at it since you got up, I'm surprised it didn’t sooner."</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Yeah, but… a pint here an' there durin' the day ain't <em> nothin </em> '," he said, almost as if he had something to prove. "I'd go days <em> livin </em>' on the stuff back home."</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Then you're probably just tired," she said, as simply and matter-of-factly as she could. She punctuated that by finishing what was left in her glass, and then setting it down on the table.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Yeah, maybe," he said, cocking his head to the side, jaw jutting out, almost looking as if he was trying to figure out why he didn't think of that first. She knew that was usually as far as he took it, if he thought about it much at all (which, he usually didn't). He just hated it when he wasn't doing something, that ever-present pulse to move, to work, to just <em>go</em> tapped on his brain like a clock with broken arms. So it was especially annoying to him when the want to sleep settled into his bones. She sometimes thought about how he handled going to bed normally, if he did at all.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Sluggishly, he shifted, looking as if he was going to stand soon, maybe walk it off somehow, peg catching on a stray napkin just under his feet.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She had other ideas, though. Softly, but with intent, she pulled him toward herself instead, his head landing on her chest with a muted thump. With her left hand she reached up, easy and slow, to delicately run her fingers through his hair, as the other gently draped over his back, as if it belonged there, as if that was naturally where it should have been. It was a hasty move, it was an intimate move, she knew, but she couldn't have him wandering off now. He'd probably pass out and fall down somewhere, and raise a few eyebrows, and honestly, she couldn't have that. Not when what she had going was going so well. If she had to sacrifice things like her personal space in the name of science, then so be it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He went stiff as a board as it happened, his whole body seeming to stutter. His breathing picked up for a moment, as if he was going to protest or push back, but by the third and fourth pass of her nails on his scalp, he quietly leaned into it and just let it happen. He was smiling now, she knew. She could feel the pull of his skin just under her shirt, the heat of his breath pressing against her. This would probably complicate things further down the line, she knew, but… that would be something she would have to plan for eventually. For now, she would chalk it up to the party, and leave it at that.</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Ya smell nice..." he ventured, almost dazed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She didn't say anything, just merely hummed soothingly in return, and kept tracing light lines through his burnt mane, dragging her tips in feathery touches. He seemed to melt into it more and more, and she was okay with that. It would build up his trust more, build up his feelings more, and it would let him go soft under her touch as the sedative cocktail worked its way into his system.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Soon enough, she'd hook him under her shoulder, take him back to her room, and start in earnest. It wouldn't be the first time people at the base would see her dragging him through the halls, so it was unlikely that anyone would even bat an eye. They'd just assume what she had projected: too much to handle, not enough awareness to find his own way back. And he himself never said anything beyond a nonchalant apology for getting into such a state that he didn't even remember going to bed, not even when he did notice the strange markings on his skin, or the bits of his hair missing. She wondered if perhaps he did notice sometimes, and just...didn’t care.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He trusted her implicitly and indiscriminately; it almost felt too easy, sometimes. Maybe because she was a doctor, maybe because he liked her, or maybe because of all of the above. It didn't matter, though. That was all part of her work, all part of her plan.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He really was perfect, she thought, feeling his body sag heavily into her own. Any minute now, he'd be ripe for what she had planned, syringes ready to go long before the evening had begun. But now, she had so much to do, so much more to explore. She had only tested and mapped out a paltry part of his body so far, and the possibilities stemming from that alone nearly set her on edge. </p><p>
  
</p><p>So, so perfect, she thought, feeling the last of his resistance disintegrate under her hands. </p><p> </p><p>Her perfect lab rat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title of this work comes from the title of a Danzig song of (almost) the same name. Go give it a listen.</p><p>And as always, if there needs to be something added or corrected, please let me know. It's been quite a long time since I've written fanfiction, and I'm trying to brush the rust off. </p><p>Beta by hatebeat.</p><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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